Helping Me Remember
by CrackinAndProudOfIt
Summary: Attached to those two boys are the most repulsive of memories. A vignette starring two sets of brothers post-Sirion; decidedly not fluff. Belatedly-posted B2MeM12 fic! -...Such as it is.-


**Bingo#: O64**

**Prompts: scream bloody murder; psychological horror _(Yeah, it was a really good day as prompts go. ;)_**

**_A/N: Though this is usually not my perception of him, I would like to note that here Maedhros is insane, not abusive. (Repeat that as a mantra while you read, if you so desire.) I'm not really sure what came over is characterization here back in March... but I went with it, for bad or for worse!_**

It is still there. The first time that I noticed the blood covering the fair little faces of Eärendil's sons, I asked Makalaurë if he had bathed them. He told me he had, but it must have been a poor job, for the crimson stains yet lingered to taint their pale complexions. I tried to say nothing more of it, and I succeeded, but instead of fading with time, the blood's hue seems to grow more vibrant, the liquid itself to propagate until looking upon the boys is like seeing all over again the maimed corpses littering the quays of Alqualondë, the halls of Menegroth, the streets of Siriombar- the broken shells of my slain.

It is still there, and here around the dinner table, it is impossible to eat with such a vivid memorandum of my sins before my eyes. I have had enough, and I rise from my seat. If Makalaurë cannot take care of his foster-sons' basic hygiene, then I will certainly have to.

I find my way into the nearby kitchen, Ereb's cheerless stone walls seeming to frown down at me as I move from the cavernous dining hall to its low-ceilinged annex. Upon the counter, I locate my quarry: a basin full of clean water, an immaculate white rag next to it. Soaking the cloth, I withdraw it after a few short seconds and squeeze any excess liquid out of it with one crushing clasp.

Damp rag in hand, I return to the table, only to be met by the curious stares of six elvish eyes. Paying no heed, I kneel beside the chair of the boy nearest me- Elrond, I believe- and place my right arm behind his back to hold him steady. What once was mere curiosity has morphed into outright fear in those innocent grey eyes.

"It's all right," I say, smiling in what I hope is a reassuring fashion. I raise the cloth, though, to his filthy countenance, and as I furiously begin to scrub his skin my words do not seem to have alleviated his terror.

"Russandol, what are you doing?" Makalaurë's alarmed voice originates from behind me, and I can hear the squeak of his chair against the floor as he stands.

"Cleaning him," I respond simply, the calmness of my tone surprising even me, for the vehemence with which I move the rag has grown. Harder, harder, pressing into the skin, digging at the stains, I scrub with ferocity only to match that with which I spilled the blood I now strive- in vain- to remove. But no matter to my actions, the stains refuse to be lifted. Dried blood is never a difficult thing to take from flesh; who is there better than me to know from experience? But the spots do not budge.

"Russandol," Makalaurë interrupts my concentration once more, speaking slowly, his tone now bearing the same fear in his adopted son's eyes. "Russandol, is he dirty?"

I stop for a split second to turn and meet my brother's gaze. "Of course," I respond, turning back to my work with renewed vigour. Maybe if I was only a bit rougher... There must be a way to cleanse him, there must!

This horrid disfigurement cannot be permanent, no- no. If only I tried more intensely it would be loosened; I scrub more quickly, pushing harder on his tainted cheek even as he squirms- futilely- in my iron grasp.

"Russandol," says Makalaurë again; _why must he repeat my name so? _But this time I do not pause for him. "please, stop." I ignore him.

And then Elrond cries out, jerking back from my hand.

"Stop! You are hurting him!" my brother commands, assuming the powerful tone of voice he reserves only for the direst of circumstances. "Leave him alone." I hear footsteps behind me, and in an eye's blink Makalaurë has pulled aside my hand, disentangled my right arm from Elrond's back, and stands between the child and me. "Do not touch him again." His tone is low with wrath.

I comply, but all I can see remains the blood, hideously distorting that young visage. Makalaurë lifts the boy, whose stained face now twists with the onset of tears, into his arms, soothingly stroking his hair.

I swallow and set the rag on the tabletop. "I apologize," I say quietly, bowing my head and leaving the room for my own chambers upstairs.

~oOo~

As on every other night, I awaken to the screams. Only what I deem is their last echoes remains, clinging to the edge of my consciousness like the immoveable blood does the children's faces- the children: the sound must come from one of them.

On a typical night, I hear the shrieks once in my sleep, and open my eyes only soon enough to catch their reverberations throughout the halls ere they die away completely. Tonight, however, tonight they persist. Ear-splitting, violent, screams of anguish, screams of grief; was the clanging of swords to be heard alongside them, they would create the din of battle in my ears.

With that sound are recalled the hideous memories: the faces of innocents fixed into a mask of death, the odours of carnage and blood permeating the air, these very cries marking an excruciating end to a brief life. The vivid recollection washes over me like a sudden riptide whose sole intention is to pull me beneath its surface until I finally drown. At the moment, I can think of but one way to stay afloat.

I cannot live like this, with these two abrasive children ever present as reminders of all my crimes; I have had enough of screams in the night's watches and bloodstains like tattoos. The dagger rests on my night-table, but I take it in hand as I rise from my bed and leave the room to solve my problem permanently.

The screams, to my vague surprise, grow no louder as I approach the elongated chamber that the two boys share. A trick of the echoes and the strange acoustics provided by the stone structure, I deem it. Quietly and cautiously, I open the twins' door and peer inside.

The scene before me is eerily tranquil: bathed in moonlight, the boys appear to be sleeping peacefully. Their stained faces betray no sign of unconscious anguish, and their mouths are shut.

Then from whence come the screams, if not from the boys? Makalaurë? No, this is not his voice. _Whose is it? _No one's. The realization strikes me with sobering gravity: they are not from my own mind- they cannot be. No- I am not mad- _am I not mad?_

As if but to affirm my suspicions, they escalate in volume for the first time, and I can almost make out their words, my own name among them, along with what sounds terribly like the Oath, recited in that dying shriek.

I study the slumbering forms before me, and regardless of the screams' source, I know just their catalysts within the harrowing recesses of what I suppose is my own mind. With the deaths of these last two, I know beyond reason that the incessant reminders of the others before them will dwindle to nonexistence. No more guilt, no more pain, the daily trial of dealing with the remorse these diabolical twain force upon me gone, I will be free.

I take immediately the two steps that position me at the bedside of whichever boy's bed is nearest the door- Elros, if I am not mistaken. I hate these children; I hate what they have done to me; I raise the knife, and with but a moment's hesitation begin slowly to drive it down.

Before it can touch the boy's body, though, I am stopped by the squeak of the bedroom door I left ajar behind me as it opens on its rusting hinges. I whirl around, putting the knife behind my back- and face Makalaurë.

A worried expression dominates his visage, but a weary smile soon falls inexplicably upon it. "I might have known," he murmurs in Quenya, "that something strange was transpiring when I heard you crying out in your sleep. I'm surprised they were not awakened as I was."

He indicates the boys, and I cast on those demons one final time a loathing glare before following my brother out of their quarters. I finger the knife, which remains out of Makalaurë's sight, still pondering the benefits of its potential use. But I find the screams have at last ceased.


End file.
